Queenie Read online

  ‘Oh Nan! I talk to her too! But why didn’t she write back to me?’

  ‘She wasn’t allowed to. She had to have complete bed rest, flat on her back. She wasn’t even allowed to read, let alone write – but now she’s made such good progress she’s on a different ward, with privileges – and look . . .’ Nurse Gabriel felt in her apron pocket and handed me a folded piece of lined paper, ragged at one end because it had been torn out of a notebook. I saw the word Elsie written in small, spidery pencilled letters, and my heart flipped over. I knew my nan’s writing.

  I opened the note, my fingers trembling.

  Dear Elsie,

  Take care, little darling. Fancy you and the Queen! I’m going to get better and look after you, just you see.

  Love from Nan xxx

  ‘Oh!’ I said, and I clasped the letter to my chest and started crying. ‘My nan! My nanny’s going to get better and look after me.’

  ‘You must remember she’s still quite poorly. She’s still going to take a while to get completely better, so that she’s not infectious any more – and she is quite elderly.’

  ‘No, she will get better, she will! And I won’t – not until I hear my nan’s as right as rain,’ I declared.

  ‘Now you’re absolutely not going to take that tack! I’m going to make you better no matter what, little Miss Elsie Kettle,’ said Nurse Gabriel.

  I couldn’t stop myself healing, even though I was determined to hang on in hospital as long as I could. In another month they actually took my splint off – and I had two legs again, although neither of them was working properly. The nurses eased me up, and I felt so sick and dizzy I had to shut my eyes while Blyton Ward whirligigged round me.

  They held me firmly, a hand under each armpit, but when they tried to make me walk, I was terrified.

  ‘I can’t do it. I’ve forgotten how!’ I shouted, my legs flip-flopping uselessly.

  ‘Come on, Elsie, try – just one step!’ they urged.

  ‘No. No, I can’t!’ I said, tottering – but then an image of Nan holding out her arms to me long ago popped into my head. I was just a baby then, shuffling around on my bottom, but when Nan called to me, I pushed myself upwards and staggered towards her.

  ‘That’s my little darling!’ I heard her say.

  So I tried and tried, first one foot, then the other.

  ‘That’s it, Elsie! Well done, sweetheart! That’s the way,’ the nurses said, but I wasn’t listening to them. I only heard Nan inside my head, urging me onwards. My good leg tottered forward half a step, and then my bad leg followed.

  ‘Hurray! Good for you, Elsie! You’re walking!’ they cried.

  I managed two tiny steps more before I was in Nan’s arms. I wouldn’t open my eyes for ages because I so wanted to believe she was really there.

  Miss Westlake worked on my legs every day, and Mr Dobbin came and fitted me for a calliper with a pair of shoes.

  ‘New shoes!’ I said. ‘Oh please, can they be shiny black patent, Mr Dobbin? Or maybe red with a button? Or white with an ankle strap?’

  Mr Dobbin chuckled as if I were joking. The joke was on me. The new walking calliper was a hideous contraption with a leather ring round my bony hip and two sets of straps and buckles at my knee. The shoes weren’t proper shoes at all, let alone black patent or red or fancy white. They were brown boots – huge sturdy brown boots that rubbed my ankles raw and clomped noisily as I staggered up and down the ward. They made the boy’s shoes I’d worn long ago before I got ill look positively dainty.

  ‘I hate them! I won’t wear them! They’re too ugly!’ I protested to Mr Dobbin.

  ‘Stop that nonsense, missy. I’m not here to turn you into a little fashion plate. I’m here to help you start walking properly,’ he said.

  Nevertheless, he took the boots away and lined the edges with soft silky stuff, and he threaded them with new laces – bright red ones. ‘There! I’ve prettified them as best I can, you fussy little madam,’ he said, grinning.

  This time I minded my manners and gave him a grateful hug.

  Nurse Gabriel bought me new red hair ribbons to match my laces – and a new frock too, because I was much too tall for the old blouse and skirt I’d worn to the hospital when I first came. It was a pink and blue checked pinafore dress, with two little white puff-sleeved blouses to wear with it, one on and one in the wash. My pink angora bolero fitted over the blouse beautifully and I could wear pink ribbons or red ribbons, whichever I fancied. Sometimes I wore a pink ribbon and a red ribbon together to make people smile and pull my plaits.

  I drew a picture of myself in my new outfit and sent it to Nan. I wrote to her every single day and collected all the letters and drawings up to be posted off in a big envelope once a week. I always wrote G. B. S. in swirly initials on the back of the envelope, meaning Get Better Soon!

  NAN WROTE THAT she was doing her very best to get better as soon as possible – but it wasn’t quite quickly enough. I was soon walking around almost normally, ready to go home. I tried pretending to limp, but it’s quite hard to fool nurses. I made myself incredibly useful on the ward and veranda instead. I pushed the beds backwards and forwards, I trundled the meals trolley about, I did the wash round, and I took over the story after supper.

  ‘You’re our special little baby-nurse,’ they said, and sometimes, for a laugh, they dressed me up in one of their uniforms, pinning a proper nurse’s cap to my hair and letting the blue frock trail on the ground.

  Sister Baker saw me every day, but she simply smiled at me. ‘Adjust your uniform, Nurse Kettle, you’re looking a little scruffy,’ she said, and walked me down the ward.

  I thought I might really be allowed to stay here in the hospital until dear Nan was ready to go home, but one day Sir David came onto the ward with a visiting consultant – and they stared at me in astonishment.

  Sir David called Sister Baker over. ‘What is that child doing on Blyton Ward?’ he asked, pointing at me dramatically.

  ‘That’s Elsie Kettle, Sir David,’ said Sister Baker, looking terribly flustered. ‘Take that nurse’s cap off, Elsie!’

  ‘I’m fully aware that she’s Elsie. I’m also aware that the child has made a full recovery and should have gone home some weeks ago,’ said Sir David.

  ‘Yes, Sir David, I know, but you see, there are difficulties about where she is to go,’ said Sister Baker. ‘I’m afraid she can’t go home to her grandma just yet.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I do know the circumstances. But we cannot keep her here, no matter how much we might wish to. Elsie is taking up a bed she no longer needs. There are many truly sick children needing her place. Really, Sister Baker, I’d have thought you’d behave like a proper nursing professional rather than a philanthropic ninny,’ Sir David said reprovingly.

  Poor Sister Baker went painfully red and hung her head. I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Sister Baker is ever so professional, Sir David. She just felt sorry for me because my nan’s not better yet and I don’t want to be shoved into one of them rotten children’s homes,’ I said. ‘Please can’t I stay here at the hospital? I’m ever so useful, truly I am. And I won’t take up anyone’s bed. As long as I have a blanket and a pillow I can sleep on the floor.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, child,’ said Sir David. ‘Hospitals are for the sick – and we have cured you.’ He turned to Sister Baker. ‘You know what you must do, Sister.’

  ‘Yes, Sir David,’ she said. ‘I will make arrangements for Elsie to leave tomorrow.’

  I started howling. I went down on my newly healed knee and begged Sir David to keep me for just a few more weeks. He backed away from me hurriedly, talking to his colleague, doing his best to ignore me completely.

  Sister Baker walked with them down the ward, but the moment they were gone she ran back to me. She didn’t try to lift me up. She knelt down beside me, her starched apron crackling, and put both her arms round me. ‘There now, Elsie,’ she said, rocking me.

  ‘Oh Sister Baker!’ I